by Martha Faë
“We who have seen the shadow.”
“I haven’t seen anything,” I protest. “What shadow? What sphere?”
There something covered with a handkerchief sitting on the little table. The gypsy pulls the cloth away, revealing a crystal ball. Her hands begin to dance rhythmically above the ball, almost caressing it, though she never touches it. The branches of the strange woman’s hands are studded with rings. Inside the crystal something begins to move, and smoke comes spiraling up, tracing elongated shapes that linger for an instant before vanishing. A face appears, perfectly visible. A chill passes through my whole body.
“I knew it,” says the gypsy, with a smile. “You can feel it.”
It’s all so absurd, so unreal. I know this is happening, but I keep hoping that if I deny it it will go away. The madness will disappear, like in a bad dream, and I’ll go back to the real world.
“I don’t feel anything,” I say, trying to sound convincing.
“You are the chosen one...”
I feel a chill again, strong enough to shake my entire body.
“I’m just cold.”
I say it resolutely, trying to convince myself, too.
“No, not cold, no. It’s something very dark, evil... only a few people can see it. Let me see your hand.”
“For what? No!” I try to pull away, but my right hand is already trapped between the woman’s rough hands of unsanded wood.
“You’ve slipped into the Sphere without permission.”
“What sphere?”
“You see?” The gypsy points at the crystal ball, but I don’t see anything. I try to move my hand but she holds it tighter. “The membrane is torn.”
“I don’t see anything. I have to go, really.”
“More and more are disappearing,” she whispers. “No one knows where they go. Only you.”
“I don’t know anything!” I yank my hand away and stand up, ready to get out of there any way I can.
“You know it. You’ve come in through the torn place.”
“I didn’t tear anything, I didn’t do anything, I don’t know what you’re talking about. I have to go. They’re waiting for me.”
“So it is,” says the woman, placing her hands over the crystal ball again, “someone’s waiting for you. But you can’t go anywhere. Not until you finish your mission.”
I’m dying of fear. This is really more than I can take. My feet and hands have gone to sleep. I open my mouth so I can beg her to let me go, but my muscles won’t budge.
“You’ve come to put things in order, but that’s just one of your missions.”
“What are you saying? Let me go, please!”
“Whether you go is up to you. I told you already: you can’t do it until you finish your task.”
“What task? Leave me alone!”
“Ask for whatever you want, whatever you need, you’re the one who was sent.”
The gypsy strokes my head gently with her rough hand, and for some reason beyond imagining, I find it soothing.
“I need to sleep.” My words come out in a wail.
“Why?!” the woman screeches in surprise. They all look at me like I’ve just said the strangest thing in the world.
“I’m very tired. I need to sleep.”
My house is gone and the hotel is in ruins. I truly have nowhere to go.
“Can I stay here?”
The woman shrugs.
“Can I have something warm to put on?”
Still stroking my head with one hand, the gypsy uses the other to take off her shawl and give it to me. She leaves, along with the others. The musicians begin to play a slow, soft melody. I rest my head on my arms on the table and fall fast asleep.
5
The bright morning light forces my eyes open. It takes me a few minutes to figure out where I am. I sit up and slowly turn my head from side to side, my neck aching from having slept sitting up. The bandstand is empty, with just a few cigarette butts left lying on the ground. The flower-embroidered shawl that I slept under last night is hanging over the wooden railing, flapping in the wind.
I look out at the beach. The tide is out, revealing a stretch of endless sand. To my right are the medieval towers of the cathedral. I bring my hands to my face and squeeze my eyes shut, then open them again. Everything is in black and white. I blink and blink but it doesn’t help. Everything has lost its color. It’s dawn, and there’s a sort brightness, you might even call it light—but no color. Little by little images from last night come back to me: the party, the accident, the clowns and the tattered tent in Market Street, the gypsies. Last night everything had already lost its color, but I didn’t pay any attention at the time. But now... I walk over to the side of the bandstand and my breath comes faster and faster. The hotel is just like it was last night: closed, in ruins.
Now I’m sure something really strange happened after the accident. I snap my fingers: I can hear the sharp sound perfectly. At least my hearing is back to normal. I wonder if it’s possible to stop seeing colors because of an accident. It wasn’t a little fender-bender or anything—the car flipped over. Carefully I examine my arms, my legs, my hands. Not a single scratch. My skin is unbroken, grayish, but unbroken. Suddenly a pit opens up in my stomach. Fear takes over and my heart races—terror has me by the throat. Could it be? No. Not that. No.
NO!
I think back to the fight with Axel. Even now I can hardly believe he deceived me so completely.
Fear knocks again, hammering at my skull like someone banging on a door. No. What I’m thinking just cannot be. I need to go home. I walk across the springy cushion of gray grass from the bandstand to the street and head downtown. My footsteps are quick and clipped. The sound of my heels tapping on the ground travels up my spine to my head, where the sound chisels a warning I can’t ignore: DON’T LOOK! And if...? What if I get to my street and everything is the same as last night? What if I find nothing but trees, and my house is really gone? I keep walking, trying not to listen to my thoughts, but it’s no use. The words keep whirling around in my head. One step and I’m convinced everything is fine and I just need to see a doctor; another step and I’m filled with terror. A doctor, that’s it—surely there’s a logical explanation for all this. I try to focus, to search my memory for the information that will make sense of everything, but my mind just runs away with me again. Fear takes over my body. I tell myself a thousand and one times that I just need to find my parents, once I find them everything will go back to normal. But no matter how many times I say it the thought tormenting me springs back up with its thorny branches. Logic. Be logical, Dissie, like you always have been. That thought creeping up on you can’t be true. If it were, my neck wouldn’t hurt from sleeping badly. In fact I wouldn’t have even slept at all— but I was tired! And I did sleep. Though the gypsy was surprised that I wanted to...
All the people I met last night were so strange. They could have been dead.
I’m not dead! I shout inside my head. Enough! I’ve got to find my parents. And I have to learn to control my imagination. I can’t be dead. Dissie, stop this nonsense right now. I have no idea what you feel when you die, or where you go when it happens. Naturally I wouldn’t choose to wander around the streets of St Andrews. If I could choose, I’d go back to my beloved Edinburgh. That’s what I always thought I’d do when I died: wander around my old haunts, maybe go back home, torment the twins. I’ve always had a clear picture of my role as a wandering ghost. I’d while away the hours of the day floating around the tombstones in the Edinburgh cemetery, watch the people mourning their dead, smell the flowers without anybody seeing me. I remember all the times I lay in bed with my eyes closed, imagining my ghostly pursuits. I had it all planned out. At night I’d lurk around the castle wall and blow on the necks of passers-by to give them chills. And best of all, I’d slip in between the young couples on the street, interrupting their kisses without them even knowing I was there. Getting stuck in St Andrews when I died was never part of the plan, thou
gh of course I hadn’t planned on dying here and now, either... What am I thinking? I deserve a prize for the most ridiculous imagination. Even my mind won’t obey me. I can’t get a handle on it.
The streets are completely deserted. Is it odd that there’s no one here? Maybe it’s too early for people to be out and about. I wish I had a watch. I head for the Quad to check the clock on St Salvator’s tower. I’m freezing. The chilly morning air is making my nose run, and I’m huddled over my crossed arms. I go into the Quad, the enclosed plaza where the first-years have their big shaving-cream fight. I know all about the tradition—lucky I don’t have to go through it now. Wait, why did I just think that? Everything is fine. I still have to figure out a way to get out of the tradition.
The fog is resting heavily above the square formed by the ancient buildings. The dampness has painted eerie stains on the stone walls. I look up: the rounded peaks of the stone walls have always looked like meringues to me, but now they’re just big ink-spots, blurred by the fog. The grass in the center of the Quad is a grayish cushion. This place has never seemed so melancholy, but somehow I almost find it soothing.
Then my blood goes cold and I stand stock-still. Something is moving beneath the arches of the St Salvator’s Chapel—a huge black wing. My feet are rooted to the spot. The shadow flits between the columns as I struggle to move my feet. I take a breath to scream, but then I see that it’s a small female figure. Her head is covered with a veil and her arms hidden inside a cape that flaps in the wind. Her footsteps are light and ethereal—she practically glides instead of walking. She vanishes into the church like a sigh.
“Hey! Excuse me!” I shout, or try to.
My voice is stuck in my throat. At least my feet are moving again.
When I peek inside the chapel I see the woman sitting on one of the benches in the front. The scant light piercing the dense fog falls gently on the stained glass windows of St Salvator’s chapel. A single ray sneaks boldly through to land right on a pointed object sitting in the center of the altar. It’s large and elongated, a quill like people used to write with. The church is empty apart from the woman. A bell rings and a priest comes out. I pull my head back instinctively and stand very still, hidden under the arch. The seagulls screech furiously. I wonder if animals go to the same place as people when they die.
I’M NOT DEAD!
The defiant cry echoes in my head again. I go back out to the lawn to check the time on the clock tower... there’s no clock! The tower has lost its clock. Bewildered, I collapse onto the stone bench attached to the façade of the church and hang my head, feeling truly small and helpless. My toes turn in toward each other. I never should have gotten in the car with that jerk who pointed out my awkward feet, and I never should have trusted Axel. This is all his fault. I shouldn’t feel bad about leaving the party with Carl. I never would have done it if Axel hadn’t treated me the way he did.
One droplet splashes onto a paving stone, then another. Tears come pouring down but I don’t try to stop them. I never cry, but today the Scottish summer rain falls lightly on the Quad and I just let my tears fall, let them soak my knees. I never cry. I’m not a crier. But now it feels like my tears are washing away time, and I’m glad. I can almost forget where I am, who I am. My fear is ebbing, and all this nonsense along with it.
A hand lands on my shoulder and I jerk back.
“Are you all right?” asks a silky voice.
My eyes sweep upward, taking in a black cape and a very pale face framed by a lace veil. The eye sockets are empty, but the features are so perfect and harmonious that the lack of eyes isn’t unsettling. I stand up in slow motion, my whole body trembling, out of my control. I’m still sobbing, tears everywhere. The woman embraces me. I feel the touch of wood, just like with the gypsy, but this is different—warm in spite of its stiffness.
“Are you lost?” asks the woman, with incredible tenderness.
I nod my head yes and then shake my head no. I know where I am, at least in theory... Shit! I’ve never felt so lost!
“If you tell me a little about yourself, I shall try to help you. Perhaps I know where you are supposed to live... I am Beatrice. What is your name?”
“Eurydice,” I answer weakly.
“Have you just been published?”
I don’t know what to say.
“I see, I see, don’t fret. You may be a reprint of our Eurydice, though I do not think so.” The woman brings her kind face close to mine to inspect me. “No, no, not a reprint. Why are you here?” I dry my eyes with the back of my hand and look at her, disconcerted. “This is not your place.”
“I know.”
“Where do you live?”
I point in the direction of our summer house and then think of what happened last night. I open my mouth and close it again without making a sound, and let my arm fall. It all seems pointless.
“Would you like some tea? I’m quite sure that will make you feel better. Let me make a suggestion: we’ll go to my house, have some tea, and then together we shall try and find out where you’re meant to live.”
This woman makes me feel safe, makes me feel calmer even in this surreal situation. Unlike every other time in my life, I don’t feel any doubt. An internal voice tells me that this woman is a guide. The guide. I ignore my second internal voice, the one that says stop thinking crazy thoughts right this instant. A guide without eyes? A total stranger? But the woman radiates a halo of calm and kindness that I just can’t explain. It’s... it’s like she’s some kind of angel. I start walking, my arm in hers. She treats me warmly, like a friend, and the soft touch of her wooden arm eases the cold I feel inside. I look at her out of the corner of my eye. Her form is balanced; her wood has been polished until it’s perfectly smooth. But sanity is about to win the struggle in my mutant brain. In another second I’ll decide to go off on my own...
“Why are you crying?” she asks in her gossamer voice.
I don’t answer. Actually, we’ve been walking for a while without speaking, but that doesn’t seem to bother Beatrice. She walks gracefully, accepting my silence as an answer. She emits some kind of soothing force. I don’t know how to describe it, it’s like something very pure, as if nothing bad could happen as long as I’m near her. I feel like she might be a heavenly guide... okay, I’m rambling.
“Who are you?” I ask suddenly.
“Beatrice,” she answers, smiling.
“No, I mean... I don’t know. Why did you come over and talk to me? Why did you invite me to your house?”
“You were crying.”
“But you don’t know me.”
“A good reason to invite you for tea, don’t you think? Tea is always a good start to a friendship.”
Beatrice nods her head elegantly and her light veil ripples in the wind, which is finally growing gentler. Like I said, she’s some kind of wooden angel.
“Nobody’s helped me until now.”
I say it even though I know it’s not exactly true. They’ve all sought out my company, the clowns, the gypsy... how different from when I was alive!
...Enough! Enough of this crap! I guess my silent shout made me grimace, because Beatrice is looking at me.
“Did they not welcome you properly?”
I can’t bring myself to say that everyone I’ve met since the accident has been perfectly polite, it’s just that they were also terrifying. I’m sorry, but I’m not used to empty eye sockets. Beatrice gives my shoulders a comforting squeeze.
“Everything will be all right,” she tells me with a smile.
As strange as it seems I feel that I can trust her. I can’t help feeling like she’s my savior.
“Are you going to tell me how to get out of here?” I ask, sounding like a hopeful little girl.
Beatrice doesn’t answer. I guess I deserve it; she’s repaying me in kind. It’s not like I’ve been too talkative. We turn toward South Street. Nearly everything is in ruins or more run-down than I remember it being. Some businesses are dif
ferent. There are old shops instead of the regular stores, and where the big bookstore on the corner used to be there’s a maternity hospital. In the distance a tall shape is walking toward us—the first person we’ve crossed paths with in all this time. It’s a man wearing a long coat and a cap with earflaps tied on top. He walks along with his back straight, one hand in his pocket and the other periodically reaching for the pipe in his mouth.
“Good day to you,” says the man in a pompous tone. “My own day is becoming even more lovely now that I have had the good fortune to encounter you, my cherished Beatrice.”
“Good day,” she answers, bobbing her head. “This is my friend Eurydice.”
Friend? I wouldn’t say that. The man greets me with a bow that I do my best to match.
“You seem worried, Mr. Ho—”
“William, dear Beatrice, call me William. I thought we’d already agreed on that, isn’t that right?”
“Forgive me, so we had. You seem worried, William. Is something troubling you?”
The man takes the pipe out of his mouth and makes an indecipherable gesture. Obviously he has no eyes; at this point I’d be surprised to meet someone who did. But it’s not the missing eyes that make his face so difficult to read. Up until now everyone—even without eyes—has been expressive. Beatrice, for example, radiates unmistakable sweetness. This man, on the other hand... William... How can Beatrice tell he’s worried? She must have a sixth sense; she certainly did with me.
“There’s nothing worrying me, darling Beatrice. Only I do wonder, since I’ve had the good luck to happen upon you, whether you might have seen Karenina recently.”
“Anna?”
“Quite right.”
“Well, no. I haven’t seen her for some time. But she should be by the train tracks. Have you looked there?”
“Yes, I looked at the tracks,” William answers, as if he’s avoiding the subject.
“And at her house? Anna is not at home?” Beatrice’s voice trembles.
William clears his throat and turns to look at me. Well, normally I would say he was looking at me, but his face is so blank... Suddenly Beatrice’s arm falls to her side.